my mother's on her way to her holy land
across the mighty Kalamazoo and through the smog
from the passing semitrucks which my nephews

beg to hear their blaring mating calls—

my mother hauls these three boys across
the hand of God so she can purify their still ivory souls
in the timely crisp lake waters, diverging their eyes

from pale girls strewn across television screens.

she bought herself a baptism dress with a dime she saved
at the supermarket as she bought Granny Smiths
to make the boys' lips pucker from tartness

as she prays their lips do when falling on marble.

she wants the angels and saints to meet her
in Galilee to watch the boys' accent to the darkened clouds
by way of virginal angels who grab these three youngsters

and flies them over the adobe huts and cacti.

my mother's on her way to her holy land
where she will build a cathedral from sand and clay
and marry my little nephews off to angels

dancing to mariachi.

No comments:

Post a Comment